


The Warmth of Another

by Pearl09



Series: Ineffable One-Shots [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting Together, Light Angst, M/M, Other characters are briefly mentioned - Freeform, Sleep, at least for my standards, mainly demons, that's the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-26
Updated: 2019-12-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:13:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21965503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearl09/pseuds/Pearl09
Summary: Crowley likes to sleep, but he tends to get nightmares if it gets too hot. Can he ever be truly warm, if everything hot reminds him of Hell?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable One-Shots [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1445479
Comments: 4
Kudos: 130





	The Warmth of Another

For a demon, Crowley probably likes sleep too much.

Most demons have a different use for their beds – lust is one of the seven sins, after all. But Crowley didn’t want to be like most demons, so he didn’t go down that path.

When he first started buying homes for himself as an attempt to blend in with the humans, he made a bed solely for appearances. If any of the humans he was trying to tempt were to come in for a visit, the lack of a bed would seem suspicious. He needs all the usual human necessities to keep up appearances: though the nice bottles of wine he keeps around and the few food dishes in the fridge are for a different reason.

So all of his beds would sit there, untouched. The first time one of them _was_ touched was one particular night in 1473 when Leonardo Da Vinci had way too many drinks, and Crowley barely hesitated before offering his bed. The next morning, he got to see first hand what a hangover looks like, and was lucky Da Vinci was out of it enough to not ask why Crowley didn’t have a hangover.

It was after a particular meeting with Aziraphale that he personally touched the bed for the first time. It was 1862, to be precise, at St. James. He hadn’t expected Aziraphale to react that way over a simple request. Perhaps there was a nicer way he could make amends. Perhaps there was a better way to ask. Perhaps, if his chest weren’t throbbing from the pain of his rejection, he’d put more thinking into making amends quickly, instead of shedding his hat and jacket and falling face-first into the comforter.

The bed was softer than he was expecting. It felt – nice, and even let some of the tension in his shoulders fade away. He toed off his shoes and slithered further up the bed, crawling under the blankets.

It hit him as hard as a kid thrilled at the idea of candy hits a pinata. Under all of those sheets and layers, it was much too hot. _Hellish_ , even, since he started getting flashes of the Fall when he closed his eyes, even if the mattress didn’t feel anything like the jagged rocks from back then.

He sat up, wide awake and alert, throwing the covers off of him and panting softly. He hates anything that reminds him of the Fall and usually tries to avoid them after. But the bed _was_ soft, and it _was_ comforting after the fight they had, so, with a snap, the temperature of the room dropped dramatically. He then threw the blankets onto the floor, all except for the thinnest sheet for the sake of appearances. 

It was a complete 180 from what he had before – but at least, as he wrapped himself up and closed his eyes, shivering lightly, he won’t have nightmares of Hell. 

When he fell asleep, he lost track of time. It was so nice, he slept for almost a century, even if he was freezing. He barely woke himself up in time to save Aziraphale from a stupid mistake of getting wrapped up in a Nazi spy ring – he still blames himself for that. If he hadn’t been asleep, maybe he could have stopped Aziraphale from making that mistake in the first place.

After making sure Aziraphale was safe and sound back in the bookshop, he started sleeping regularly. Not quite as regularly as a human, of course – if a person with insomnia only manages a few hours every once in a while, then he’s a demon with insomnia, managing a few days every once in a while. When you’re immortal, it’s basically the same thing.

He slept away his problems, year after year, always in the cold. He could forget about the duties he was forced to do while he slept.

When it came to Armageddon, he wished he _could_ sleep. Or at least, that he was sleeping and would wake up safe and cold in his bed. He did have an overactive imagination, after all. Having to face his problems instead of sleeping them away was not fun.

But then it all turned out okay. Adam sent Satan back to… somewhere, the world didn’t end, and he and Aziraphale were free of their respective duties. Well, they weren’t officially told that, but after their little body-switch stunt, they doubt it would be otherwise. 

Crowley still sleeps. He’s become a little more reckless with it, actually, falling asleep more frequently and in different places. He woke up with a crick in his neck after falling asleep on his throne once. He had tried the wall and the ceiling before, when he wanted to sleep and couldn’t, but he was confused for a good few minutes one morning when he tried to figure out why everything was upside down, or sideways. Not one of his brightest moments.

It’s when he finally accidentally falls asleep on Aziraphale’s couch that things take a turn.

He didn’t mean to fall asleep. They had a nice time at the Ritz, drank some wine when they got back, and it was cold enough that the mesmerizing sound of Aziraphale turning the pages of his book every few minutes put him to sleep.

Vaguely, he can feel something moving on him, but he chalks it up as an itch and doesn’t let it wake him up. What harm can it do? He’ll just get a little more rest, and when Aziraphale wants him again, he can wake him up. It’s simple, really.

It turns out to be a mistake. A _very_ bad mistake. For a demon who grew used to the cold, the kind action of an angel pulling a blanket over his sleeping form is bad. As Crowley grows warmer, he slips into a series of nightmares intermixed with his own memories. Some of them he has seen before: Hastur and Ligur mocking him as he’s stuck in snake form, Beelzebub yelling at him for something he didn’t do again; but there are some new dreams in there as well. It isn’t quite him, per se; it’s a little off in some way, but it still looks like him as he watches. This form tends to start in a trial in front of Hell, but each end gets worse. He gets thrown into one of Hell’s pits. He gets taken to one of the torture rooms – Crowley himself can’t see beyond the door, but he can still hear. Every time the trial ends, Crowley feels the sudden urge to save him, help him; but all he can do is watch, or cover his face with his larger than normal hands to avoid seeing the new torment.

Crowley wakes up with a start after he had a Falling dream – he vaguely remembers that humans experience dreams like that too, where they feel like they are falling. At least the humans just wake up, and don’t remember falling into a pit of boiling sulfur after. He quickly tosses the blanket to the side and adjusts his glasses, which had started to slip. Only once he’s pulled his knees up to his chest and wrapped his arm around them does he realize Aziraphale is staring at him over his book.

“Is everything alright, dear?”

He gulps. “Yep. I’m a-okay over here. Everything’s – right as rain.”

Aziraphale purses his lips and shuts his book. “You’re hyperventilating.”

Is he? He didn’t notice. He’s also shaking like a madman, too – there goes trying to keep a cool facade going. He forces his breathing to stop – he doesn’t need it anyway – but the shaking won’t go away.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

He shakes his head tersely. Telling Aziraphale would be – would be… it would be tearing his last line of defense down, his last wall, which is already crumbling to the point of it coming down altogether; it won’t take much to bring it down. It would leave him vulnerable. Open. Exactly what a demon shouldn’t be.

“You’re not a demon anymore, my dear,” Aziraphale continues, as if he was reading Crowley’s mind. He gets up, setting his book aside, and sits back down again on the couch next to Crowley. He gently rests his hand on Crowley’s leg as he says, “If you really need to talk, I’m always here to listen.”

And that’s it. The final swing of the hammer that brings Crowley’s wall to dust around him. He won’t cry; no, that’s not what he needs to do. But he will tell Aziraphale what happened.

“It’s the warmth.” He says it slowly, methodically, and hopes he doesn’t sound like the worst being in the world as the rest starts to tumble out. “Always makes me… always gives me nightmares. Old memories. Bad stuff.”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale furrows his brows – but he doesn’t look on with pity, or shame, or anything Crowley was expecting. He looks with understanding, and maybe, a touch of regret. “If I had known, I wouldn’t have – I mean, that is to say, the humans seem to always sleep under blankets, so I just thought, assumed–”

“‘S alright, angel.” The corner of his mouth turns up slightly despite his mood, and the shaking has slowed down a lot. But he isn’t done yet. “It – it wasn’t just that. This one – it was different.” He sighs as he thinks back on everything. “I think – I think you were there, as me. I think I saw the trial’s go bad, and – and every time it restarted your punishment got worse, and – I couldn’t do a thing about it, and–”

Aziraphale’s hand shifts on his leg and it stops Crowley’s rambling as he follows the methodic rubbing up and down. He’s seen parents do it to their children before to calm them down, or people at a funeral as they console each other, and, well, it seems to actually be working.

“It sounds like you suffered from some terrible nightmares, my dear. You must have slept terribly.” He pauses as he continues to rub up and down Crowley’s leg, and the shaking finally stops. “Do you know what people tend to do to console each other over nightmares?”

Crowley shakes his head. As much as he sleeps, he doesn’t know much about the dreaming part. 

“Well, I know young children will spend the rest of the night in their parent’s room; it makes them feel safe. Some will leave a light on, perhaps a small candle, to chase the evil spirits away. And those with partners–” Aziraphale flushes slightly. “Those with partners seek comfort in each other, cuddling and maybe talking, but overall receiving the sense that they are safe where they are.”

“Angel, what are you saying?”

Aziraphale flushes again. “Well, if you want – I can lay with you to help deter the nightmares. Especially if they were about me. Knowing I’m right there beside you might help, wouldn’t it?”

“But–” He cuts himself off, not sure what to say to continue this. Of course he wants to protest. He’s protested his want for something like this for at least 6000 years now, probably more. But he never thought Aziraphale would feel the same way. He never thought, with an angel, and a demon–

Aziraphale interrupts Crowley’s wandering thoughts as his face suddenly descends on his, and Aziraphale pecks the tip of Crowley’s nose. It’s enough to make Crowley as red as Aziraphale, though neither are quite as red as his hair. Yet.

“Crowley, I – well, I don’t know if you feel the same way about me as I do you, one can only hope, but – please, let me be there for you when you need it. In sickness, and – and in health.”

He blinks – maybe the blanket shifted off of him as he was sleeping, so now he’s having a good dream? An absolutely, perfectly, wonderful dream? He pinches his hand to test – nope; he felt that. This is real. He blinks again. Aziraphale’s face is starting to fall as Crowley hasn’t answered, and his soothing movements are beginning to slow.

“To – to lo – love and to cherish,” he says as a smile blooms across his face, leaning over and kissing Aziraphale on the forehead. He keeps it short, just like Aziraphale’s was, but when he leans back; let’s just say he doesn’t know where the light in the room is coming from anymore.

“Till death do us part,” Aziraphale whispers, finishing it out; even if he did start in the middle.

“Yeah, let’s not do the dying thing,” Crowley teases, getting a laugh from Aziraphale. They both lean in and rest their foreheads together, smiling dopily and drinking everything in.

After some time passes, Aziraphale takes Crowley upstairs to the small flat; he was starting to dose again. There’s a bed just big enough for the two of them, and, letting him lead the way, Crowley just climbs on top of it. Aziraphale follows suit, resting on the other side. After briefly hesitating, Crowley turns and curls into Aziraphale’s side, and he feels a warm arm wrap its way around his back. He freezes at first, knowing what warmth usually brings him, but after resting his head on Aziraphale’s chest and feeling Aziraphale’s warmth fill him, taking away the cold chill deep in his bones, he realizes that not all kinds of warmth are bad.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Come check out my [tumblr](https://pearlll09.tumblr.com/) for more good omens shenanigans ;)


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